


Ask

by fourfreedoms



Series: Model Verse [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, First Time Bottoming, M/M, model verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:37:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a few moments sketching out a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That's The One

Nate’s doing a solo shoot for Vogue Homme and Brad decided, if he wasn’t Nate’s roommate, and he wasn’t Nate’s fuckbuddy (because Nate doesn’t do that), than he was Nate’s boyfriend. And furthermore he was taking the privileges that came along with that: like showing up on his sets, bringing him Honest Tea in glass bottles as a surprise, because he wouldn’t drink it out of the plastic. And if he's doing that, he can't be blamed if he's staying to stare.

They had Nate grow his hair out a little for this shoot and it’s spilt over the pillow on the antique couch they have him lying on. He looks feverish and beautiful, shirt open over his chest and stovepipe pants tailored to fit his legs like a second skin. The photographer tells him to prop up a knee and Nate does it slowly. All Brad can think about was three days ago, he learned what that knee felt like sliding up his side, how Nate’s jaw fit against his shoulder, the sound of Nate’s breath as it huffed out of him.

The photographer tells Nate to stick his hand down his pants, like he’s so relaxed and alone he can touch himself and not worry about it. Nate does it after he gets his face back from an amused 'seriously?' grin and into a more acceptable fond and relaxed expression. He looks dreamy, like he’s somewhere else. Brad’s pretty well hidden, behind drops and props and people, but somehow Nate turns his head and meets Brad’s eyes, lips just slightly parted. His eyelids flutter and white teeth sink into his lip. Lights flash erratically over him, snapping pictures, but Nate holds his gaze as he moves his arm like he’s stroking himself. Jesus, maybe he is.

Brad reaches a hand to his own face and feels the heat from a dark blush. Nate’s lip quirks at the corner. And then the photographer shouts, “That’s it, that’s the one.”


	2. For Now

Nate refused to give up the NoLiTa apartment, but then he also refused to go to NYU—“do I look like some fucking hipster?”—or Columbia. He says, 'You don’t need to move with me,' when out of the seven schools that accepted him, he chooses Amherst.

Brad's not going to lie. There are times when he honestly wants to reconsider. It’s fucking cold in Massachusetts, and they have to fly into Hartford’s Bradley airport and then drive an hour whenever they come back from a shoot, and retarded undergrads are retarded. Especially the freshman.

But then Brad gets back from two weeks in Majorca getting oil rubbed all over him and sand up his ass to find Nate sitting on their Restoration Hardware sofa in pajamas and a pair of geek chic glasses typing furiously at some paper he’s got due in twenty-four hours and Brad is really glad he said 'hell to the fucking no' to long distance.

“I brought dinner,” he says, bending down to kiss Nate who manages to wickedly slide his tongue along the crease of Brad’s lips without a stutter in his typing. “Wendy’s, special treat,” he says and grins, licking Kiehl’s off his bottom lip. The winter dryness gets to Nate up here. He smears lipbalm on constantly and asks Brad to rub him down with Lubriderm in the hard to reach places, like the middle of his back.

“Mmhmm,” Nate replies, distracted. He aggressively hits the spacebar and Brad bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Later they’ll have time for other things when Nate’s sent off the paper, put his books and papers away, and eaten the fastfood Brad got them, because bugging Nate to cook when he has an assignment is like asking him to pry out one of his own teeth. Brad will tie Nate’s wrists to the bed, and Nate won’t even bother to take his glasses off. He’ll pull and struggle at the knots that Brad’s made, and he’ll moan with every touch of Brad’s mouth to his skin like the slutty school boy he is.

He’ll tell Brad he can take it harder and faster and he’ll get vicious, find a way to fight against his bonds and wrap his fingers against the rungs of the headboard Brad ordered custom. He’ll growl, “Are you tired? Is this all you’ve got?” And Brad will slow everything down, slide his dick out so that only the head is holding Nate open. He’ll look down at Nate and share breath with him, until he begs, and whatever fear he has over his damn ten page paper melts away. He’ll kiss Brad, and tighten his legs around Brad’s hips, not to spur him on, but just to say ‘I’m here.’ And Brad’s heart will fly up into his throat, and he’ll forget why he hates Amherst.

But that’s all later. For now, he’ll settle with plying Nate with cheeseburgers and a few subtle reminders to breathe, the paper's going to be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

Nate never asks. They have sex everywhere—in the shower, slip sliding, Brad dumping half the items on the counter on the floor as he reaches out the shower stall in the quest for lube; on the floor after Nate’s come back from a run, sweat leaving an outline of their bodies on the hardwood; across the desk in Nate’s room, Brad pinning his wrists to the surface.

He learns that when Nate thumbs Brad’s pulse he’s imagining Brad naked, and when Nate fiddles with the hem of his shirt so that Brad’s eyes are inevitably drawn to Nate's dick, he wants Brad to suck him off. But he never asks to top. And Brad doesn’t know what that means. Sometimes he feels, in the moments before coming, Nate straining on his dick, flush extending down to his sternum, darkening his nipples, that he would like to know what it’s like. Nate’s expression is a revelation.

He must want it--to top, who wouldn’t want that tight heat clenching around his dick, pushed in so deep he feels at the center of everything Nate is. But he doesn’t ask and Brad starts wondering if he fucked this up, if they missed some important step, and now Nate feels like he can’t ask because Brad’s been straight until now and still doesn’t know what he’d call himself if somebody asked for his sexuality point blank.

At the end of NY fashion week Brad is going a bit out of his mind. He hasn’t seen Nate much. Brad has to keep ducking Calvin Klein's people who want him for some pornographic spread with Eva Mendes. Nate’s been invited to about 2 billion after parties and openings and private get-togethers because everybody actually wants to suck his dick and listen to him talk about world politics while they do it. Nate walked for Elie Tahari and Brad did Dior Homme with Stafford, and they all got to laugh at Ray in his crazy hairdo for Lanvin. Pretty much every time he sees Nate it comes up in his head. And when they get back to their little apartment in NoLiTa after the whole thing is over, scrubbed down and subdued, he just out and says it.

He sets his keys down with a heavy clunk and asks, “Do you want to fuck me?”

Nate’s standing in front of the open fridge in soft ratty La Coste sweater he’s had for as long Brad’s known him, gulping down a Moroccan Mint Honest Tea. He turns towards Brad, shutting the door with an absent hand. The corners of his eyes crinkle with a grin and he sets down the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure.” He leans back against the kitchen counter mischievously. “Right here?”

Brad blows out a breath. “I..no, I thought you would…uh…” He can’t say this without completely ruining the atmosphere.

But Nate gets it. He steps into Brad’s space. “Ah, you want me to _fuck_ you.”

“Is that okay?”

Nate brushes his lips over Brad’s jaw and says, “Yeah, that’s okay.”

He’s slow about it. He gets Brad laid out on his bed, kisses him slow and sweet as he slides the first two fingers inside. Brad makes a sound in the back of his throat, pushes down into the mattress. The sensation is unpleasant, and the unease of that knowledge settles in tight over him. Nate slows down, presses his thumb just under Brad’s balls. He tips Brad’s chin back further, hand at his throat, and fucks into Brad’s mouth with his tongue.

Nate doesn’t use any of the platitudes guys have for virgins and girls who are unsure--ones that Brad has used himself. He doesn’t say anything. He just smooths a palm down Brad’s side, tightens his fingers around Brad’s hip, so that Brad remembers there’s more to his body than the uncomfortable stretch in his ass. His dick spurts out pre-come when Nate scissors his fingers and tongues at Brad’s nipple. Brad slides his fingers over Nate’s scalp, not wanting to stop that tenuous grasp he has on good. Nate's hands are brusque and efficient, but his mouth tells a different story. He uses it to tease Brad and keep him in the moment.

When Nate finally slides his cock in, Brad has to hold himself very still. As Nate sinks, inch by burning inch he's not sure what told him this was a good plan. And then Nate hits Brad’s prostate on the first stroke and pauses. Brad chokes, head bobbing drunkenly on his neck, stretched wide round Nate’s dick, and Nate drops a kiss in the hollow of his throat.

“Was saving that,” he says simply, flush running down his body.


End file.
